


I’ve Seen You in Lace

by tealmoon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Clothing, Fluff, Gen, Gender Identity, On the surface, Tea Parties, a softer Underfell, extreme fluff with very little conflict, let Papyrus be femme 2k17, nonbinary Papyrus, reaching new levels of self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:03:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealmoon/pseuds/tealmoon
Summary: He wanted to be soft sometimes, to not have to hide it, and the Surface gave him that chance with some unexpected support.





	1. Chapter 1

Papyrus hates having secrets. There’s necessary ones (the world can’t know just how sick his brother is, or where they came from), but the secret that weighs heaviest on him feels so trivial that it hurts his considerable pride. In a perfect world, he could protect his brother and serve the King and be a strong, capable Royal Guard 100% of the time, and he wouldn’t need this.

They don’t live in a perfect world. The violence and the danger exhaust him, and he collects as much softness and safety as he can: his brother’s voice reading him to sleep, rare and awkward embraces with Undyne, puzzles he’s completed a thousand times. The clothing is just one more thing keeping him sane.

It had been an accident, the first time. Papyrus had been wandering the dump, looking for a thief who had run through, probably intending to hide in the garbage piles. Finding them had been trivially easy, and he was dragging them back when he saw a glimpse of pink, a bright spot in the midst of otherwise monochrome trash. The thief started thrashing in his grasp a moment later, and he put it out of his mind.

But the pink was still there, when he returned a few hours later, the workday over. Usually trash didn’t last that long before someone snatched it up. Everything around it had been picked through, but the spot of color remained. He pulled it free, holding it up to the light: a thin, bright pink t-shirt. There was a tear at the bottom, no doubt the reason it was thrown away, and the fabric looked so flimsy that it was practically translucent.

And it was absolutely amazing. He made sure no one was in sight before tucking it in his inventory, strangely giddy. It wasn’t the sort of thing a monster could wear openly; it was bright enough that it would make the wearer a target, and it wouldn’t be warm enough for Snowdin’s climate. It was actually a little small for him when he finally got the chance to try it on, with his bedroom door locked and barricaded, but the fabric felt glorious against his bones, and the color...

Collecting comes naturally to him; having possessions and a place to keep them is practically addicting. Books, puzzles, and now this. Monster fashion wasn’t entirely utilitarian (his brother’s fur-lined jacket was proof enough), but it was far more important to be protected than to look beautiful. Once he realized beautiful was an _option_ , one shirt wasn’t enough for very long.

At this point, Undyne’s closet has more of his clothes than hers, all hidden away in boxes on the floor, a few scattered weapons on top to further conceal them. Sometimes, when he was just stopping in, his gaze would catch on the closed door of her bedroom, thinking about each piece, all of them folded neatly by his hands. By now, she didn’t give him (much) shit for it.

It’s pretty rare that they’re actually brought out, usually every few months, long enough he worries the clothes will become musty. A lot of it is fragile, and it would need a delicate hand-washing that Undyne definitely would not be able to provide, even if she wanted to. He doesn’t wear them long enough to get them dirty, but maybe someday he’d have to load up his inventory and stealthily wash it at home. (Sans is practically allergic to the washer, considering how he never does his own laundry, but Papyrus would still worry and fret and hover to make sure his brother didn’t see.)

Sometimes, they can both just tell when he needed to do this. It hasn’t been a particularly violent day, no dust sprayed across their armor, but as they take the boat back to Waterfall, Undyne gives him a _look_ , her eye softening as much as it ever can, flickering with her natural green magic. They’ve been friends for so long that they barely have to say these things; she can tell he would follow her into Waterfall rather than heading on to Snowdin, and not for the ‘usual’ reasons.

He quickly texts his brother, telling him that he would be with Undyne for a few hours and Sans could have his dinner at Grillby’s. Sans doesn’t seem to know what he does at Undyne’s house, thankfully. He probably assumed they were getting drunk or wildly cooking or _something_ , and Papyrus never contradicts that belief. There doesn’t seem to be any easy way to gauge his brother’s opinion on fragile, frilly clothes. Maybe he’d think his brother was a freak or a pervert. Maybe he’d laugh until he couldn’t breathe.

That was why he kept it all at Undyne’s now, or in his inventory if at all necessary. His brother doesn’t mess around in his possessions, but Papyrus couldn’t help obsessing over what ifs. Some secrets just aren’t meant for family to know.

People in Waterfall are used to him and Undyne walking together, and he doesn’t worry about anyone seeing him going to her house. There were idiots who whispered about them being lovers, but otherwise, no one seemed to know a thing. (He has the feeling Undyne is fully aware and doesn’t do much to dismiss it, to better shield her growing attraction to one eccentric Royal Scientist.) He kept an eye on any potential gossip but didn’t find anything worrying.

Undyne locks the door behind them, and the deadbolt. Her windows are covered up, but he glances at them anyway, doing a perimeter check for intruders. Never can be too careful. She ducks into her bedroom, confirming that it’s safe, and then waves him off to the attached bathroom, while she carefully removes and cleans her armor. The day hadn’t been strenuous, but he still wants a quick shower, to make sure he won’t muss up his clothing with any stray sweat or dirt.

Maybe he’s stalling a little, as he dries his bones thoroughly and neatly stacks his armor in the bathroom corner. The anticipation is one of the best parts, after all. He inches back into her bedroom and towards her closet, the towel wrapped around him. From the water running in the other room, she’s probably preparing tea, like usual.

He hadn’t decided what to wear on the boat ride back. He prefers to make a choice with each piece at hand, to look and touch each one. It’s not a silk day, he’s narrowed it down that much, though it’s hard to pinpoint what _made_ a silk day. He wants to be cute today, rather than beautiful or elegant, though the former is a lot harder to pull off when you’re six and a half feet of heavily scarred bone.

He kneels on the floor, still in the towel, pulling boxes out. The ones at the very bottom are underthings, which Undyne wanted to hide away the most, not wanting anyone to think she wore something like _that_. He doesn’t have any need for brassieres, so it was mostly stockings, shifts...panties. His hands moving on auto-pilot, he looks through them. Cotton today, rather than lace. Papyrus carefully selects a pair, such a light pink that they almost look white, with a little bow on the front. He loosens the towel so he can slip them on. It had taken him a while to get used to the sight of them on his pelvis when they were made for fleshy people, but they still fit and look nice. Adorable, almost.

(Sometime he wishes he could wear a pair of them under his work pants, so just feeling them could lift his mood through the stress of Guard work. No one would know, right? But even though his pants are durable leather, it’s possible that they could become damaged in a battle, and then everyone would know.)

What next? He has a few pairs of hot pants in various colors, those are always nice, clinging to his hips in an attractive way. But he feels like something light today, something flowing. A skirt? Not a sundress; he has a few different shirts in mind. Almost none of his collected clothing is red or black; these pastels and neons almost don’t exist outside of this room. It’s been easy to build his collection, since most monsters would ignore this fragile clothing if they came across it in the dump. Even if they used dye so the color wouldn’t stick out, why bother grabbing a shirt that would tear immediately in a fight? He pulls out a sleek lavender skirt, one that falls halfway down his knees. A little short; he needs some tights or knee socks as well, to avoid scandalizing Undyne with the sheer beauty of his bare legs.

He likes to drag it out, to adjust to the feeling of it on his bones as he slowly adorns himself. He starts with the pair of stockings, black with little silver stars, sliding them up the length of his legs. They’re one of the first pieces of clothing he actually bought rather than scavenging, though he had spent weeks worrying that someone would find out that he was the one to order it online, afraid that it might come to blackmail. But no one ever showed up at his house, demanding to know why a Royal Guard was buying frilly socks. He tries to be discreet anyway, but no one seems to notice or care.

The skirt comes next, and finally a shirt, one he hasn’t worn before. It’s a filmy white halter top with purple ribbons, and he tries, fumbling, to tie it himself, staring over his shoulder into the mirror. For a moment, he thinks he has it tied properly, before the ribbons unravel and it nearly falls off.

She’s pouring water for their tea with extreme vigor when he walks out, taking small, careful steps, always worrying the bones of his feet might tear the stockings. “Undyne, I am in need of your assistance!!” He holds the shirt up against his ribs—best friends or not, he feels a little awkward with his rib cage barely covered. It’s already revealing enough, open in the back and showing off his spine.

“Papyrus for the last goddamn time I’m not going to help you pick what to wear—huh?” She finally looks up, staring at the top.

“I merely need help tying this! Lend me your capable, scaly hands! ...Please.” He probably could have managed eventually with the mirror and some blue magic, but he has the feeling she doesn’t mind all that much. He winces as she grabs at the ties, remembering last time she had helped him dress. “And not with force! This isn’t like the corset, you don’t need to pull hard on it. Just tie it at the neck.”

(Papyrus loved the single corset he had obtained, dark red silk, far closer to his normal wardrobe than the rest. There wasn’t any need for subterfuge or sneaking around to buy it, and he doubted anyone would bat an eye if he wore it in the streets. If he could think of a decent occasion to wear it out, he would, maybe at one of the formal events held for Guards? It accentuated his rib cage beautifully, and he was pretty sure Undyne had actually enjoyed lacing it for him, laughing as she pulled it as tight as she could make it.)

She huffs but starts tying. Maybe not the best bow, when he heads back into the bathroom to check in the mirror (doing a little twirl to see the skirt flare around him), but she hadn’t torn it. He’d collected a few articles of clothing that had been ripped, from the very depths of the trash dump, and kept them even though he had no way to repair them. Well, yet. Sans could sew passably, and maybe someday he could get those arcane secrets from his brother? Directly taking a ripped skirt or pastel sweater to Sans for repairs, however, would be unspeakable.

Undyne gives him a look-over when he walks back out, but she doesn’t say anything. When they first started, she told him she had wondered if she was supposed to compliment him, though it wasn’t her style, and she fumbled to come up with something positive. He had insisted that keeping his clothes for him was enough of a kindness, and not laughing him out of her house altogether. He didn’t need to force insincere words out of her.

He has the suspicion that Undyne doesn’t know how to cook without a mess and property damage, so she digs out leftovers from her hot fridge for them. It was about dinner time anyway. She handed him a slice of pizza and, rolling her eye, a fork, before tearing into her own piece. It’s a lot neater than their usual dinners together, and he doesn’t have to worry about stray sauce flying everywhere.

When they first started doing this, their conversations had been awkward for the duration of Papyrus wearing his nice clothes, but by now, Undyne has gotten used to him looking like this. She tells him how Alphys is doing, how their strange courting is progressing, and Papyrus gives her the Snowdin gossip. Nothing about work; no need to linger on it, now that they’re off duty. Neither of them has managed a vacation in years, and sick days are sparse, so they need whatever breaks they can manage.

She pours them a second round of tea. Undyne saved her golden flower blend for official business, and he can never be certain what she might serve him on any other day, only that it is hand-made and very likely isn’t poison. From what little he can smell, it seems to be a mix made from Gerson’s crab apples. Soon she slams his mug back down in front of him, carrying hers over to the piano with much more care.

In a way, her piano is the equivalent of his clothes. The Underground has musicians and bards, but socially, they are far below the military. Everyone loves a good song, but it doesn’t offer much prestige or gold, and it remains her silly little hobby, not something to become invested in. He has the feeling Undyne is self-taught. She knows how to read music, but her collection of sheet music is slim at best, and most of the time she seems to make stuff up as she goes. In a different, kinder life, maybe she could have been a composer, or a children’s music teacher.

It’s always somehow a shock, at the first tentative notes. He’s used to her bashing her hands against the keys, warbling along and making up ridiculous lyrics, but on dress-up days, it’s as if his moment of softness mirrors itself in her. She plays quietly, aimless for a minute until she settles on a cobbled-together tune. It has strains of the music box puzzle not far away, but slowly it turns into something he’s unfamiliar with.

Papyrus sips his tea, one hand toying with the hem of his skirt, relishing in how soft it is. Without his gloves on, his hands feel so sensitive, and he’s careful not to snag the fabric with his claws. Neither of them needs to speak. She plays on and on, and it’s hard to tell where one song ends and another begins, or if it’s just one lengthy piece.

It can’t last forever. Even for a Guard, wandering around at nighttime is courting danger, and he needs to return to Snowdin and tend to his brother. Sans is waiting for him in that disgusting bar, after all. He’d be there all night if Papyrus allowed it, drinking himself into a horrible stupor. As Undyne continues to play, he returns to her bedroom, carefully undressing and returning the clothes to their boxes. Putting his armor back on makes his bones ache; two hours should have quieted the urge, but it only makes him insatiable, longing for more time. Papyrus usually loves his armor, his heeled boots. They make him intimidating and powerful, able to fight and protect, but when he briefly glances in the mirror, he just feels...ugly. Tired.

Undyne briefly stops playing to accompany him to the door, an arm around his shoulder, grinning widely. Despite his melancholy, he returns it as he says goodbye: she really is the best friend a skeleton could ever ask for.

With the faint sounds of her piano at his back, Papyrus walks home.

-

It is difficult, becoming used to Lady Toriel. Both Sans and Frisk have vouched for her, but Papyrus can’t help being intimidated around royalty. Or, former royalty, perhaps. But if he wants the company of his human friend, he has to tolerate her presence—Toriel doesn’t like to be separated from Frisk for too long.

Frisk needs new clothing; they had only their tattered sweater and shorts when they had fallen into the Underground. He has the feeling Toriel and Asgore want to lavish this child with whatever they could possibly need or desire, though thankfully the King had not been invited to clothes shopping. Luckily the idea seemed to excite Frisk, until they were skipping and flailing in joy on the way to the human ‘Shopping Mall’. They insisted their Uncle Papyrus come along, and maybe that was for the best. Toriel’s intimidation aside, he could help repel the inevitable glares and whispers from humans, wondering about a pair of monsters with a human child in tow.

(And, honestly? He can’t deny Frisk much of anything. One beseeching look, and it’s like his bones have been replaced with putty.)

“ _You could get clothes too, Papyrus,_ ” Frisk signs happily. “ _No more spikes!_ ”

“You don’t think my attire is dashing enough, human?” Too bad they were indoors, so there wasn’t a breeze to make his scarf billow dramatically. He’s still getting used to being around humans, so it was light armor or not going out at all. Who knew if he would have to defend himself or Frisk? “We’re shopping for you, first of all!”

They giggle, and probably sign something else, but his attention is thoroughly shanghaied as they cross the threshold into the clothes store.

There’s so much! Even the classiest, most expensive Underground shops had sparse offerings, all in the same black and red, occasionally livened up by a bit of yellow or gray. But this single shop has rows upon rows of clothing, bearing every color that he could have imagined, clean and bright and _new_. If not for Frisk tugging him forward by the hand, he would have frozen completely.

Toriel ushers them along to the children’s section, though Frisk takes their time, running their hands along the racks, humming something under their breath. While Toriel moves through the socks section, occasionally exclaiming at an interesting pattern, Frisk bounces around, dragging Papyrus along and pointing out various articles of clothing: frilly children’s party dresses, embroidered shorts, printed shirts, some with wordplay that would please Sans, so he hesitantly took a few photos with his cellphone. No doubt they’d get their way and leave with a lot of it.

He wants this child in the sort of clothing that you couldn’t climb a mountain in, and Toriel clearly shares the sentiment, leading Frisk towards the dressing room, arms full of fabric.

Papyrus would soon follow them, to encourage Frisk to pose and flex so he can see their new acquisitions. (Though he’d have to make sure not to shout, as he learned that it could upset humans.) But for a moment, he exhales, staring out over the store, or at least the parts he can see—it’s so expansive that he can’t see the whole store from the children’s section.

Still, he can see enough, rows and rows of the kind of blouses he had only dreamed of, colors and fabrics he had never gotten to wear before. Apparently ‘summer’ would be upon them soon, so most of what he can see looks light, airy, the sort of clothing that would tear immediately in a fight. He wants all of it.

Hearing Toriel faintly exclaim over Frisk’s cuteness, he turns back to the dressing room, readying his best praise. There would be time for him to get clothing for himself; right now, it is Frisk’s time.

...Maybe he could take Sans shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, I've been kind of going through a lot of shit with my family situation and my mental health is pretty terrible lately, so most of my in-progress stuff is going really slow. It's a lot easier to work on fluff/ventfic/lighter works in general. (For anyone waiting on those unfinished fics, I appreciate your patience ;_;) Apparently making fell Papyrus happy is the best mood-booster I can come up with. 
> 
> ....This is starting to become a theme, isn't it? I guess I still feel terrible for killing him in YD and am making up for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, the fluff increases.

Out of all the wonderful things the Surface has offered them (while he tries to dismiss the terrible things), driving is possibly one of the best, and he’s glad that getting the license was one of his first goals. It’s the middle-point for so many new adventures—stargazing, hiking (and inevitably carrying Sans when he complains about the exertion), a day trip to the coast—but even driving in itself clears out a muddied, dark space in his head. The convertible has a retractable top, so he can drive with the wind scouring his bones, the sun dripping down on him, the radio blaring with all the neat human music he’s discovered. He chose one painted silver; he’s tired of red and black these days, unless it’s his scarf.

At night, it’s best of all, with fewer people on the road. It’s not that often that a human yells something derogatory at him, but if there’s no one around to do it, all the better. The stars are harder to see around the city, but Papyrus can still pick out a few, and the moon, and the little lights of the planes. The lights in the dark sky, and the cold air through the windows, and his brother beside him. The car upholstery smells like bones.

They’re going shopping, or at least that is the plan.

Maybe it’s a bad idea. His brother hasn’t gotten the chance to go out much, once they found housing. Sans seems to _like_ the Surface well enough, but it’s overwhelming for him, and he stays inside when he can, unless Frisk whines and begs. He often sleeps during the day and prefers going out at night, where there’s fewer humans and the sun has receded. Even so, he’s shivering and sweating as Papyrus parks and they step out in the mild, dim night. He glances to one side and another as they walk through the half-empty parking lot. The lights above them leave worrisome pools of shadow, where there could be attackers waiting...

Sans doesn’t really calm down, once they enter the store. Since Papyrus visited the other day, the employees don’t seem too shocked at the sight of skeletons, but Sans cringes anyway, shrinking down into his jacket. His jacket is the only part of his wardrobe that’s pristine. His sneakers are worn down, his shirt has a tear in one sleeve, the elastic in his shorts is barely holding on. In the harsh lighting, all of his cracks and scars stand out against his bones, and it makes Papyrus feel a little ill. His brother needs Surface-appropriate clothing, and, though it might be selfish to hope for, maybe they could have a familial discussion about Papyrus’s own clothing.

(Undyne brought the boxes over a week ago, and now he has his collection at hand, whenever he wants. But dressing up in his own bedroom feels like a step down to doing it at Undyne’s. It’s not like he needs an excuse to see her, but he misses it, and there’s no chance anymore now that she lives with Alphys. He still doesn’t know the scientist well enough to do it around her.)

He had learned that human clothing was typically divided into male and female, and unfortunately, ‘male’ was typically more drab, though some of it had a plain charm. Papyrus herds Sans over to the boys section anyway, where the options are more likely to fit him. He tries to swallow a sigh at how unfashionable it all is, but at least the clothing is similar to what Sans is already wearing.

Papyrus shoves potential choices into their cart. T-shirts in a variety of colors, most of them plain. He doesn’t understand what most of the designs represent, some part of human culture they haven’t learned yet. Sans doesn’t seem to care unless a shirt has a pun on it, and only a few of them do. (And all of them go into the cart.) The shorts are much easier; they have the exact same style as the ones he’s wearing, black with yellow stripes down the side. Sans the Skeleton, so lazy he can’t even change his own style. He tosses a few different options into the cart anyway.

If only he could get Sans to care about it. It’ll go on his body, should he have something he likes? He brandishes a shirt at his brother, trying to get any sort of reaction. “What about this one?” It’s cobalt—wasn’t that once his brother’s favorite color, back before favorite colors were childish and unnecessary?

“It’s fine? I dunno what you want me to say. ‘S just a shirt.” Sans doesn’t seem too enthusiastic, watching the proceedings and shrugging at everything Papyrus shows him, but he obediently follows him over to the dressing room anyway, once the cart is full.

The attendant jumps a little as they approach, but she counts out the items of clothing, handing Sans a plastic indicator with shaking hands. He disappears into a room, arms full of fabric, and Papyrus settles against the wall to wait and guard their cart. He eyes a section with socks, wondering if he could sneak a package into the cart without Sans noticing, to surprise him with at the checkout. It doesn’t take long; Sans’s desire to return home wins out over his laziness, and soon he’s back out, right when Papyrus was just about to cross over to the socks.

It would be easier, if he just bought stuff for Sans and forgot about himself. With all the options available to him (after sorting out the few pun shirts and putting them back in the cart), Sans still pauses over the brighter options before choosing shirts in red, shorts in black. Something in Papyrus deflates. Maybe living on the Surface _doesn’t_ afford them more color, and some things need to stay the same. Maybe he’s strange for wanting to go through the ‘women’s’ section. Maybe...

“What about you, bo— bro?” Now that the Royal Guard is no more, Sans doesn’t use that title anymore, or at least he tries to correct himself when he automatically slips up. It’s still a long way away from ‘Papy,’ like when they were young, but it still makes Papyrus feel...safe? Like he doesn’t have to yell and hurt his brother, just so people won’t find them weak.

“What?”

Sans pokes through the cart, rubbing the fabric of a shirt between his phalanges. “Aren’t we getting something for you too? The kid says it’s gonna get warm.” Skeletons aren’t as affected by heat or cold as other monsters were, but it was true—his wardrobe (the one that Sans knew about, anyway) is mostly sweaters and heavy pants, unsuitable for the season that apparently lies ahead.

He doesn’t have a throat, but something around his sternum feels clogged and heavy. He takes hold of the cart and pushes it forward, secretly very glad that he took the time to pick out one that didn’t have a squeaking wheel. Papyrus could walk to the left, to the men’s clothing. And it’s _fine_ and attractive, and maybe he would feel alright wearing some of it. He’s had many years of dressing that way, and it only hurt a little bit.

He walks to the right, to the women’s clothing.

For a moment, Sans pauses behind him, before he hurries to catch up with Papyrus. Start out easy, he tells himself. Maybe one top, one pair of shorts or lightweight pants. He focuses on a display of tank tops with delicate lace along the collar, not daring to look at his brother.

“So, uh, you want _this_ sort of stuff, Pap?” It isn’t that different than when they were children: “You want me to get you that book, that food, that shiny rock?” Even when Sans had to steal something, or go without to save their funds, he would do it with a grin. He hated denying his brother anything.

“Yes! I deserve nothing less than the latest human fashions! At least one of us has to be stylish.” It feels like things could go wrong at any moment, spinning out of control. There aren’t many other customers around, but an employee is hovering, perhaps about to ask if they need help. He keeps himself turned away from Sans, moving towards a rack of brightly colored crop tops. (Some of them have sequins, and he drops one into the cart, imagining how it would shine in the daylight.) He can’t figure out how to blurt it out, and it’s easier not to look at Sans.

So, of course, Sans shuffles forward so he’s in Papyrus’s field of vision. “Doesn’t really seem your style, bro.”

It would be terribly unkind to retort that Sans doesn’t _know_ his style, so he just shrugs and shoves down the cruel, anxious words that threaten to come out. “Perhaps it can be part of my style, now. The Great and Terrible Papyrus is infinitely adaptable! Aren’t these more interesting than the clothes you picked out?”

His brother looks around, at the brightly colored advertisements: humans with bright, blunt teeth, wind blowing their hair artfully, dressed in the clothing on the shelves and racks around them. All women, apparently. It’s hard for him to tell when it’s a picture that he can’t Check, and the social acceptability of such an action is still in question anyway.

Humans go about things so oddly. He doesn’t know why clothing has to be separated by gender, or why human men don’t wear colorful clothing, when they clearly have available fabric and dye, or why most humans don’t believe someone can be a they. He’s learned shreds and bits of human culture from Frisk, and what little he knows makes no sense.

“Think they’re women’s clothes, Pap.” Sans waves a hand at the nearest ad, a human woman in a convertible not so different than his own. “Should I start calling you a girl now?” From anyone else, the words might have seemed mocking, but his tone is neutral. Sans would probably do it without a thought, ‘sis’ instead of ‘bro.’

Gaster had never given them a gender or indicated that it was a concept that existed; why bother calling a weapon anything but an it? Once they learned about gender, with the laboratory left behind them, both of them took on ‘he’ and kept moving on with their lives. Why did it matter what gender they were? Papyrus probably could have measured his pelvis and hips to make a decision that way (his pelvic inlet narrower than Sans’s, but not by a lot), but there were more important things to care about.

But now, he has all the time and safety in this sun-drenched world to give gender the consideration it deserves. Is he a woman? Or has he been cross-dressing this whole time? His best role model for women is Undyne, and her femininity is loud, aggressive. By her standards, he isn’t a woman, right? Nor is he if he compares himself to Toriel, or to Alphys, or any of the women who had lived in Snowdin. If anything, he’s more like Frisk: a hardened, strong outside and a softer, weaker center.

But Sans is looking at him expectantly. His nonchalance makes things so much easier; he’s not denouncing Papyrus in front of the whole store, or calling him a pervert, or anything like that. “If anything, you’d be calling me a woman, not a girl! I’m not a child! Or a lady, that would be far more appropriate. But no. I am still your brother, I think.” At least for now; who knows what the future holds?

Sans leans forward, taking the blouse Papyrus has been holding for the past few minutes, too distracted to examine it properly. His grip is awkward, like he expects it to tear at any moment. “Don’t think this is your size, though. Your shoulders are too wide. Too big-boned, you could say.” He snickers at Papyrus’s affronted look. “Nah, look over here—who makes up these sizes anyway—I think that one will fit better.”

He finds that, as he heads to the dressing room, he can’t stop smiling. (And Sans gets his package of socks, black with little white skulls and crossbones. He has to be very sneaky about it, sending Sans off to look at shoes while he hides the socks underneath their new clothes, but oh, how his face lights up at the checkout.)

-

The concept of a ‘tea party’ is extremely strange to Papyrus. It seems to have so many components, according to the pictures Frisk showed him; it’s not _just_ tea, like he might have with Undyne on a normal day of the week. Apparently there are all sorts of strange customs involved in a tea party.

For one thing, Frisk requested hot chocolate, which is not tea in the least. He would have assumed that humans just weren’t knowledgeable about drinks, but surely their new father had educated them at length about tea? They insisted on it, however, so hot chocolate it is.

Apparently a standard tea party necessitates sweets in as many forms as possible. He and Sans have made a dual effort of it, though that meant that Papyrus has gone all out, baking a variety of cookies and a cake, while Sans went to the corner store for marshmallows and boxed doughnuts. (On the other hand, he actually got out of the house and interacted with a cashier rather than stealing it, so Papyrus is still silently proud of him.) Frisk promised to bring their mother’s pie, multiple flavors of it.

He shouldn’t be so anxious. It’s only Frisk, after all, and maybe Undyne later, if she can make it. The human child knows about his clothes, ever since they climbed into his closet during a game of hide and seek the other day. He had convinced himself to hang most of it up aside his regular wardrobe a few weeks ago, so even if he didn’t choose to wear it, it was an option. And out of everyone in the world, aside from Sans and Undyne, Frisk is the person he can trust to accept him.

And yet... His brother calls up the stairs, though he doesn’t sound frustrated. Sans never cares about being tardy, after all. “Frisk ain’t getting any younger, Pap!”

They arrived about ten minutes ago, but he’s stuck, pacing from his door to the middle of the room and back again, dress swishing around his legs. There’s still time to change into the pants and shirt laid out on his bed. He’s being so impolite, making his guest wait for their tea party, but the thought makes it worse. He can’t get through the door, can’t make a decision, can’t do anything but think in circles.

Can he really do this? Nothing about it is particularly difficult or dangerous, unless by chance those terrible doughnuts Sans bought are poisoned. (And one box is powdered sugar, which will probably get _everywhere_. Sans probably chose them on purpose to be an ass.) Of course, with all that sugar, there’s some chance of tooth decay, but as much as he wracks his mind, he can’t think of any other reasons why he’s dithering like this. Except for the dress.

Is it frivolous? Will Sans laugh at him? He wears some of his special clothing around the house occasionally, to acclimate them both to it, but nothing quite as fancy and delicate as this handkerchief dress. It feels like it could tear if he moved too quickly. What if he accidentally spills hot chocolate on himself??

After five minutes, there’s a tiny knock at his door. Bony knocking is very distinctive, so he can tell right away that it’s Frisk and not Sans. And a few seconds later, his phone vibrates with a text. _“Papyrus, can I come in?”_

“Yes, Frisk? You may enter my bedroom, I permit it!” With clammy hands (ugh, is he turning into his brother now?), he opens the door. The child slips into the room, arms already raising up for a hug. He gives himself a moment to look Frisk over before he’s sweeping them up into an embrace.

They’re also dressed for the occasion, it seems: a striped shirt with ruffled sleeves, striped tights in a neon rainbow, a skirt that is a frothing mess of pink and white frills, practically a tutu. Their tiny wrists and fingers crowded with plastic jewelry. A ribbon tied into their hair so expertly that he mourns his lack of keratin. Papyrus looks absolutely plain in comparison.

They don’t seem to think so. “ _You look so pretty, Papyrus!”_ Frisk signs at him, their face lighting up. And he does, doesn’t he? The dress is simple, but the shade of pink suits him very well. (Indeed, all colors suit the Great Papyrus, it went without saying.) “ _Are you done getting dressed?”_

“Almost. I apologize for the delay, Frisk!” He retrieves his scarf from the bed, the last part of his outfit. The bright red doesn’t really match with the light pink, but his neck feels strange without it. Winding their little hand in his, Frisk leads him out of the room and downstairs, where he had already set up the table for their party.

Sans has taken his seat. The doughnut box is open, and it looks like he’s already had a few, half of one still in his hand. Of course it’s powdered sugar, and there’s a dusting of it on the tablecloth and down his black shirt. He doesn’t even have the grace to look apologetic about it. “There you are. Did it really take you that long to get all prettified?”

Inwardly, he preens. His brother and Frisk both think he’s pretty! “ _Some_ of us actually put effort into our appearance. Did you finish the hot chocolate already?”

As Frisk hops into their seat, eyes wide at the array of sweets in front of them, Sans glances into the kitchen. Papyrus follows his gaze and sighs: the cocoa, sugar, and milk still waiting on the counter where he left them, before he went upstairs to dress. Sans didn’t even manage to get a saucepan out.

“Unbelievable,” Papyrus says, over Frisk’s giggling. “Do I have to do everything myself? I’ll ration your whipped cream for this!”

But only on the first mug, he decides as he begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mental image to consider: an enormously tall, battle-scarred skeleton driving on the highway, wearing a crop top and a mini skirt, blasting death metal from his car's stereo. He's very happy.


End file.
